


The Disruption

by Durendal



Series: Kelborn and Cadets [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Clone Commandos, Cuy'val Dar, Gen, Mandalorians - Freeform, Violence against Children, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durendal/pseuds/Durendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While training the future commandos of the Grand Army of the Republic, Ambu Kelborn of the Cuy'val Dar finds his lesson is disrupted by one of Skirata's boys. He is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Disruption

Kamino

26 BBY

Ambu Kelborn stood in front of his trainees. There were a few dozen of them, all perhaps twelve years old, physically, at least, all identical. Black hair, brown eyes, same height. Clones, Kelborn thought, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. All of them were holding rifles, DC-17m interchangeable Weapon Systems, to be precise, the standard weapon of all future clone commandos. The rifles were half as big as they were, but to their credit, they handled them well. None of them were visibly straining under the weight, none of them were slouching, and they were all treating them carefully, like weapons, not toys. Kelborn nodded in approval, they weren’t much, but it was a start.

Kelborn loomed over them, a figure clad in white and green beskar’gam. He had been hired by Jango Fett to personally train a number of clone soldiers, hoping to make them into commandos one day, when they were fully grown. In truth, he had been somewhat reluctant to take the position, and not just because he would be forced to leave his family and home behind to become a member of the Cuy’val Dar, those who no longer existed. In spite of his Mandalorian heritage, he found himself apart from his brethren. To his disgust, he found most of them to be insufferable to be around. Mij Gilamar was a sanctimonious kleptomaniac, Walon Vau was an outright psychopath, two more, Dredd Priest and Isabet Reau were wannabe Death Watch members and Skirata…

Well, the less said about Skirata, the better.

Galidraan had made them sore-losers. Kelborn remembered his buir telling him of how the old Mandalorians had respected the Jedi for the combat skills, praised them even. But now, they majority of them festered over a pointless battle that shouldn’t even have been fought in the first place. Worse, they all seemed to inexplicably blame the Jedi for the incident. Kelborn was appalled at their blindness. It had not been the Jedi who had doomed the Mandalorians, it had not even been Tor Viszla, who had tricked them into fighting. No, it was Fett and his arrogant pride. Had Fett’s response to the Jedi’s order to stand down not been to open fire on them, the 300 Mandalorians who had fought at Galidraan would still be alive.

Kelborn’s brother would still be alive. 

Still, the money had been too good to say no to. Gods knew he needed it, having never gotten into the mercenary ways of his people following the defeat of the Death Watch. Instead, he had retreated from Mandalorian space with his wife and their unborn child to Kerkoidia. Kelborn might not have had the same lust for battle that his comrades did, but he did enjoy the hunt, and the savannahs of Kerkoidia were perfect for him. But, selling pelts and trophies wasn’t as lucrative as it once was, and Kelborn was forced to put aside his disgust with Fett and swallow his pride. Now, there he was, training the future soldiers of the Republic.

Kelborn shook his head, now was not the time to be bitter over the past.

“Today, we will be getting to know your weapon. The Deece is a versatile weapon, capable of reconfiguring into several different modes. Sniper, grenade launcher, general purpose blaster, all very useful settings. You’re going to be studying this weapon in and out until you can reconfigure it with your eyes closed. You will-”

The lesson was interrupted by the sound of blasterfire from nearby. Kelborn scanned the area, not immediately seeing anything other than stark white walls and the odd Kaminoan technician. There weren’t any live-fire exercises scheduled for today, he thought to himself, his eyes still looking for the source of the shot. Then, he saw it, a blaster bolt came streaking down, barely missing a Kaminoan. The alien let out a startled yelp, before he collapsed onto the ground. Kelborn followed the arc of the blaster bolt back to its source and saw, to his great dismay, a young clone soldier, perched up in the support beams, holding a rifle. One of Skirata’s little brats, smug little chakaar’s even giggling, he thought, clenching his teeth. Without turning to look at his trainees, Kelborn held out his arm, his palm open. Almost instantly, one of them placed their rifles in his outstretched hand. He swivelled around fully and trained the blaster on the little monster. Kelborn fired a single shot and watched in satisfaction as the blaster bolt sailed through the air and hit the support beam that the clone was standing out. The clone let out a panicked cry, before losing his balance and falling to the ground, landing with a heavy thud.

“Little osik,” Kelborn muttered, glaring at the clone’s prone form. He turned to face his trainees “Stay here, I have to check on the little fool.”

“Sergeant, my rifle?” 1156 asked, Kelborn realising that it was his rifle that he had borrowed. In retrospect, he wasn’t terribly surprised, 56 was always eager to please. He’d make a fine soldier one day, perhaps even lead his own squad.

Kelborn looked at the rifle, only mildly surprised to realise that he was holding it in a death-grip. He briefly considered holding on to it while he checked on Skirata’s boy, then thought better of it. Almost reluctantly, he handed the blaster back to 56 and strode off to see how injured the clone was. 

There he was, lying on the cold, sterile floor, his eyes screwed shut, tears flowing freely. One arm jutted out at an odd angle, the other clutching at it tightly. Kelborn did not feel sympathetic in the slightest. Instead, he hoisted the boy up by his good arm and glared at him.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at, chakaar?” He hissed at the boy, his grip unconsciously tightening, eliciting a cry from the injured clone. 

The boy scowled at him and tried to wrench his arm free “They’re just aiwha-bait, what do you care?”

Underneath his helmet, Kelborn rolled his eyes. Skirata was oh-so fond of bragging about how open and tolerant Mandalorians were, how they’d accept anyone…unless you were a Kaminoan or a Jedi, then you were responsible for every bad thing about the galaxy. 

“Did these Kaminoans do anything personal to you?” Kelborn asked, jabbing a finger at the technicians, who were watching the scene. 

“They’re Kaminii!” The boy shouted, as if that would satisfy Kelborn.

“Did they do anything to you?” Kelborn asked again, this time his voice was barely above a whisper “Is Orun Wa amongst them? Hmm?

The boy didn’t respond, instead he grunted and tried harder to wrestle his arm free of Kelborn’s grip.

“What’s going on here?!” A voice from behind them shouted. 

Kelborn groaned, recognising the voice. The Kaminoans abruptly rushed off, evidently not wishing to stay around for the inevitable conflict. 

“Kal’buir!” The boy shouted out, ceasing his struggle.

Kal’buir? Papa Kal? Kelborn was disgusted, he was coddling his soldiers! Treating them as if they were his children! He let go of the boy’s arm and turned to face Skirata. His helmet was off, and he was glowering at Kelborn. Kelborn was not in the least bit intimidated. It might work on the Kaminoans, but Kelborn knew Skirata for the sanctimonious, self-righteous, hypocrite that he was, and he was not impressed. The boy rushed to Skirata’s side as fast as his broken arm would allow him. Skirata’s features abruptly softened and he knelt to examine the boy’s injury.

“Ord’ika, are you alright?” Skirata asked, his voice tender.

Ordo. Of course it was, he was the ringleader and by far the worst of Skirata’s little vermin. 

“My arm…I think it’s broken…” Ordo whispered, cringing as Skirata gently touched it.

“Your brat was disrupting my lesson with my trainees and was taking pot-shots at the Kaminoans,” Kelborn said, trying and failing to keep the anger from his voice. His hands were held rigidly to his sides, clenched tightly. 

Skirata stood up and faced Kelborn. Evidently, he was just as unhappy as Kelborn. He was scowling, and Kelborn noted a vein was throbbing in his forehead.

“So you broke his arm?!” Skirata snapped, spittle flying.

“The di’kut shouldn’t have been playing in the support beams and trying to murder the workers!” Kelborn retorted, taking a step toward Skirata. 

“He wasn’t trying to kill the gihaal, he was just scaring them! Practicing his aim!” Skirata shot back.

“And that makes it better?!” Kelborn shouted, incredulous “What if he had missed, Skirata? What if he missed and killed one of them?” 

Skirata balked at the suggestion “My boys, miss? They’re the best of the best, Kelborn! There’s no danger of that!”

“They’re also dangerously unstable mentally! And you indulge them! Spoil them! You’re not raising soldiers, you’re telling a pack of psychopaths to give into their violent impulses! And you’re making them more dangerous!” 

Skirata’s scowl deepened “My boys are not psychopaths!”

Kelborn scoffed “Oh, don’t kid yourself, Skirata. They’re a bunch of amoral little thugs. You and Gilamar whine about how the galaxy at large sees us as nothing more than petty criminals, and yet, here you are, actively encouraging your “boys” to assault people because you don’t like them!” Kelborn snorted “Our reputation as murderers and thugs isn’t undeserved, Skirata, but its people like you who enforce it in the first place!” 

Skirata recoiled at that, as if he had been slapped “How can you stand up for them? They’re Kaminii! Arutiise!” 

Kelborn rolled his eyes again, regretting that Skirata could not see him do it “Yes, Skirata, all Kaminoans are the same, aren’t they? They’re all emotionless, ruthless eugenicists, aren’t they? That’s their entire species, not a single one is capable of being different. Just like all Mandalorians are Death Watch.”

Skirata’s eyes opened up wide and his jaw dropped “What? How can you-?”

“You’re an utter bigot and a hypocrite, Skirata. You make sweeping generalisations on a species, yet whenever someone points out the flaws in Mandalorian society, you demonise them, call aruetiise, chakaar, whatever. Frankly, I grow tired of it. In fact, I grow tired of you, Skirata.” At that, Kelborn quickly turned and strode off, back to his trainees “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few squads to teach. I want them to be soldiers, not spoiled brats or future gang members.”

Kelborn looked at his trainees, and was dismayed to see them staring at him in awe. He frowned, opened his mouth to say something, paused, closed it, and then spoke.

“If any of you start calling me Am’buir, I will shoot you. Am I understood?” 

“Perfectly…Am’buir.” One of them, 1159 said with a smirk.

Kelborn took of his helmet and smiled warmly at the lad. Then, moving as quickly as a striking shriek-hawk, punched him in the gut. The boy keeled over, eyes wide, clutching at his stomach and making choking noises, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth and pooling on the ground. 

Satisfied, Ambu put his helmet back on “Next time, I really will shoot you. Got it?”

As one, the other recruits barked out “Yes, sergeant!” 

Kelborn smiled, “Perfect. Now, start reconfiguring your rifles. I don’t want you lagging behind Skirata’s degenerates.”

**Author's Note:**

> Buir: Parent
> 
> Chakaar: Scumbag
> 
> Osik: Dung
> 
> Kaminii: Kaminoan
> 
> Di'kut: Idiot, fool
> 
> Gihaal: Fish bait,
> 
> Arutiise: Non-Mandalorian
> 
> Apologies for the bland title, if anyone has a better suggestion, I'd be glad to hear it.


End file.
